


The Unquiet Grave

by ClockworkCourier



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Sleepy Hollow, Blood and Gore, Decapitation, Ghosts, Halloween, M/M, Murder Mystery, Past Relationship(s), Rating May Change, Revolutionary War, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 09:33:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8396587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: "The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback, without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War, and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind."---Fifteen years after Gabriel Reyes' bloody death on the fields of battle, Jack Morrison returns to the place of his death for the first time, only to find that his spirit is far from being at peace.





	

**Author's Note:**

> /rolls in
> 
> Hello, this is a Sleepy Hollow AU that absolutely nobody asked for. Never mind that this is the mildly historically _accurate_ Sleepy Hollow AU that nobody asked for. Line forms on the right to fling me into the sea.
> 
> Or, more accurately, I had a mighty hankering for writing some serious Halloween fic, especially about my favorite Halloween story of all time. Combine that with my current fandom and my need for Headless!Gabe and you got my number. ;O _You can't reason with a headless maaaan~!_
> 
> /rolls out

_“And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.” -Revelation 6:8_

* * *

_October 28, 1776 - near White Plains, New York_

  
The earth seemed to rumble under Jack Morrison’s feet, like something beneath the soil was trying desperately to claw its way out. He could hear the distant crack and whistle of musket fire, and if he turned just enough to his right, he could see the powder-white smoke of the battle drifting overhead like morning fog. As it was, he couldn’t turn. He couldn’t do much except run directly forward, towards a safe copse of trees that would give him at least some cover. There was another telltale rattle of dozens of muskets firing at once, sounding disturbingly like a bone shattering.  
  
Each footfall of his mad sprint to safety was like a chant in his head, _Gab-r’el, Gab-r’el_ . The chant and his own ramming heartbeat didn’t even bother to slow until he finally hit the treeline and slung himself around until his back was up against the wide girth of a massive, ancient oak tree. He gasped for breath, his lungs heaving and burning, his eyes stinging as sweat dripped into them.  
  
Gingerly, he felt over a spot on his right hip where something had hit him, although he had been far too frantic to pay it mind when it happened. Now, he could feel the warm bloom of welling blood under his fingers, growing cool and tacky as it made contact with the frigid fall air. He winced and finally brought himself to look down, flinching at the sight of what was obviously more than just a graze. “Damnit,” he hissed, folding up part of his coat and pressing it against the wound. Now wasn’t the time for field medicine. He needed to find Gabriel first.  
  
He leaned up against the tree as the pain in his hip grew tenfold, now that he was minding it. Slowly, he leaned around to get a better view of the battle, seeing blurs of gray and red clash through the smoky screen of gunfire. Riders on horseback ran back and forth across the expanse, shouting and raising muskets or sabres. Jack frowned hard when he saw a line of Hessian riders near the fringe of the battle, distinct for their blue-gray uniforms, some of them wielding large axes that made them look completely medieval.  
  
Worse yet, Jack knew that he needed to be looking at them. Even from a distance, he searched their ranks, up and down and back up again, trying to find one or two faces that were familiar. They were too far, however, to make any real distinction. Jack would have to get closer.  
  
He steeled his mind against the pain that now beat against him like a battering ram and tried his best to run again. Each step felt like fire lancing through him, but he grit his teeth against it and wove through the trees, staying out of sight.  
  
Slowly, the Hessian line came into better focus, and he could properly see them bringing up the rear of the British. They were mostly scattered, but once one volley of musket fire had been launched and the smoke settled, Jack could still see them. Finally, he spotted one who seemed the most out of place. On horseback was a tall man dressed in Hessian colors, an enormous broadax in one hand and a bayoneted musket over one shoulder. Through the distance and the smoke, it was still hard to make out exact features, but Jack would have been able to find Gabriel anywhere. And there he was, tall and broad and proud with skin like burnished bronze, turned so he faced the battle like a statue of Ares on horseback.  
  
And yet all Jack could think was _run._  
  
A cannonball hit near the Hessian line, sending some of the horses reeling back. Gabriel’s white horse only cantered a few steps away, but calmed instantly. Gabriel had always been the better horseman, and it seemed to apply even in the heat of war. He maneuvered his horse back around to the far right side of the line, shouting something in German that caused the Hessians to edge closer to the right. They couldn’t see the change in strategy, but Jack could. Gabriel was working them towards the thinner part of the formation, where the Americans could pick them off better at a distance. For all the Hessians knew, they were simply reinforcing a weak spot.  
  
Another cannonball flew past, striking one Hessian directly in the chest and sending him off his horse so violently that Jack couldn’t believe the sight. His body fell heavily, disappearing in the tall golden grass like the earth devoured him. His horse whinnied in terror and turned, galloping at full tilt back towards the black woods behind them. Gabriel didn’t seem to pay the event any heed, still barking orders and causing the line to keep moving.  
  
It was a brilliant tactic and a perfect attempt at espionage, one that Jack had hoped and prayed would pay off. The Hessians were none the wiser about two German-fluent men joining their ranks, claiming to have come from another unit in New Jersey with Gabriel being a Spanish defector. Reinhardt was probably back at the temporary Hessian headquarters, while Gabriel took to the field.  
  
But something was wrong. Jack could feel it just as sure as if it were being whispered in the wind. He bit down on his bottom lip hard enough to puncture the skin, his right hand hovering over his wound, feeling the icy October wind lash at him from one side while the acrid smell of gunsmoke drifted in from the other. He felt like he was waiting on the precipice of _something_ , as though he was bracing himself for another wound or a strike.  
  
Then, he heard another explosive _boom_ of a cannon, and from the precipice the entire world seemed to fall.  
  
He had heard that at the time of death, everything seems to slow down. The world and all of history plays itself from the beginning to that point in front of the man set to die, like some great reminder of all he accomplished or all he failed to do. It was that split second after the floor drops out and before the line of the noose goes taut.  
  
If Gabriel felt that, Jack didn’t know, because time did not slow down for him. In very real time, Jack watched as Gabriel was struck from his saddle, levering violently backwards so that his body seemed caught in a pose of surprised agony, one hand still on the reins, the other hanging freely behind him. It took a moment for Jack to realize that Gabriel’s body was all he could see. His head had been taken clear off, just as neatly as the head of a Greek god removed from its marble perch.  
  
A second was all he could spare before the white horse went up on its hind legs, sending Gabriel’s body down to the golden earth that had swallowed up the other Hessian. His death sent the Hessian line into disorder, half of them going to the right as he had ordered, the other half going to the left. Jack was numb to it, though, unable to process anything beyond what he had just seen. He slid down to the ground, rot and mud soaking into his trousers as he leaned up against another oak, staring sightless out at the battle.  
  
His heart kept up the chant, _Gab-r’el, Gab-r’el, Gab-r’el_ until he couldn’t hear anything at all. From that moment to the point where it all went black, there was no transition. All he could remember thinking was that he hoped to what ever god there might be that the earth and the golden grass might swallow him up, too.  
  
\---  
  
_October 27, 1791 - Tarry Town, New York_  
  
There was a lot of ruckus going on at one end of the tavern, a mixture of laughter and anger, and one infuriated voice shouting over it all, “Shut your bloody mouth, Fawkes!” before a young man was practically lifted off the floor by the back of his coat by the tavern owner. The man giggled like a madman and swung his feet like a child lifted by their hands, until the tavern owner, completely massive in comparison, dropped him back down to solid ground.  
  
The owner glared at the younger man before huffing in irritation. “At least have the sense to keep your voice down. You’re disturbing the others.”  
  
“ _So-rry!_ ” the younger man sang before settling back down on his stool by the fire, another man shoving a stein into his waiting hands. “Now, where was I?”  
  
Jack didn’t care enough to listen to the rest of what ever caused the disturbance in the first place. He turned away while the young man regaled some bawdy tale about so-and-so’s wife and something about an explosion that probably had nothing to do with munitions. Jack’s ale was still untouched on the table, his stew rapidly cooling. The young woman waiting on him offered him at least something like a sympathetic glance as she passed, although thankfully, she didn’t say a word.  
  
Not that it mattered. There was no amount of pity that would pry Jack out of the dark spiral of thoughts he found himself trapped in whenever he came even close to Tarry Town. Other than necessity, there was also no reason he should have been there unless it was to pass through on his way to the city. But perhaps it was a combination of sick curiosity and rumination that led him on a detour from Boston to New York, one that he never should have had to take.  
  
Fifteen years hadn’t done much by way of changing the landscape. Tarry Town was still a quiet little whispered mention of a town as it always had been, and his brief, painful excursion to White Plains had yielded just more of the same. Gold grass still stood high, wavering gently, beckoning to a place that Jack had come to see mostly in nightmares. Nothing had changed, and that meant the obvious. Even coming back wasn’t going to summon Gabriel except in too many awful memories.  
  
He’d go to the city in the morning, when the rain wasn’t dowsing every window pane and the wind wasn’t shrieking like some tortured spirit, promising ice and snow within weeks. The tavern was a cozy reprieve compared to everywhere else before he would reach the city limits.  
  
His hand was beginning to just reach for his ale when the nature of the story at the end of the tavern changed. The giggling man must have thought better of his previous story about some poor man’s wife, or was silenced otherwise, as another lower voice came up. “You know, it’s been a year since that schoolteacher disappeared from Sleepy Hollow,” he said, with the air of a man simply recollecting. “Said he had his head chopped right off.”  
  
“I heard he was spirited away to the underworld,” another man added, sounding pleased. “The Horseman just swept him right off his feet and straight into Hell.”  
  
This made Jack sit up straight, his full attention on the crowd at the end of the room. Fortunately, one man seemed to share Jack’s thoughts. “What happened?” he asked.  
  
The deep-voiced man hummed thoughtfully, and Jack saw him over the top of everyone’s heads. He was a massive bear of a man with wild black hair and eyes hidden behind a pair of spectacles that reflected the firelight. “You know about the Headless Horseman, don’t you?”  
  
Fawkes giggled again and the tavern owner shot him a deadly look from the bar. His giggles died down, but Jack could see him nod. “I know of him,” he drawled, tapping his feet nervously against the floorboards. “The wives down there said he was some poor bastard left on a field after a battle. No head, no name. Just some uh... what’d you call ‘em, Winston?”  
  
The bespectacled man sighed through his nose. “Hessians,” he answered.  
  
Fawkes snapped his fingers and pointed at him in delight. “That’s the one! Yeah, he was one of them German folks from the war. Lena said they didn’t say so much as a single prayer before they dumped him in a grave down at the Dutch church. Sad, ain’t it?”  
  
Winston shrugged and nodded, sipping at his ale. “I’d think so. But they’ve been talking about his ghost there since the war ended. It’s been said he--”  
  
“He’s been lookin’ for his head!” Fawkes practically shrieked in glee. He made a motion with his free hand of slicing across his throat before grinning. “Stompin’ around the countryside as a spectre, looking for some poor sod to cut up! An’ he _got one._ ”  
  
Aside from looking irritated at being interrupted, Winston nodded again. “That’s what they’ve said.”  
  
He didn’t have time to elaborate, at least to Jack. Ice had crawled through every vein like the slow encroachment of frost. His hand trembled on his ale and he swallowed hard. _A coincidence,_ he thought. _Many men died. Many men like..._ He didn’t even want to think of his name, let alone the sort of death that would earn a moniker like Headless Horseman. It brought him to the cusp of images he never wanted to recall, and it took every ounce of concentration to stop the recollection at that moment frozen in time, of a man in Hessian uniform looking like a god of war among a field glimmering gold in the wan sunlight.  
  
At the ghostly echo of an explosion in his memory, Jack wrenched himself away from it. He pushed back from the table, leaving his ale still untouched. He didn’t care about the weather or the cold, or how late it was to be traveling. The woman at the bar looked like she wanted to say something, but he stormed past her, shoving the door open into the frigid October night.  
  
Once he was outside, the door to the tavern firmly shut behind him, Jack tried to catch a breath he didn’t know he had lost. Tarry Town was all but lost to the blackness of night in front of him, the barely-visible inky line of the Hudson River running alongside it. He stared out at it, trying to anchor himself however he could. At one point in his life, he might have prayed. Since the war, he hadn’t prayed once.  
  
_Fifteen years,_ he thought, his fists clenching as he leaned up against the boards of the tavern wall. Rain sluiced down his collar, just an idle distraction compared to the maelstrom roaring through his head. It’s been fifteen years.  
  
Fifteen years since Gabriel Reyes fell on the gold of White Plains. Fifteen years since Jack lost what little of himself he truly had, so that all that remained was some husk that bore the name Jack Morrison, better known now in his town as the Soldier. Fifteen years since his entire world was turned up on its head, unsettled and cold and terrible.  
  
And in fifteen years, it looked like the ghost of Gabriel Reyes wasn’t just settling in Jack’s nightmares.  
  
He cursed to himself, low enough that even a nearby ear wouldn’t hear it, before storming over to the ramshackle stable buckling under its own mossy roof. The tan mare he had ridden in on looked up at him with a sleepy, bored expression before nickering and lowering her head down to scoop up more hay. He walked up to her and ran one hand down the length of her neck, watching and feeling her twitch before she raised her head back up. Thankfully, her bridle and saddle hadn’t been removed yet, due to him arriving on such short notice. It was all a matter of turning her and leading her back out into the night.  
  
He’d go home, he decided. There really was nothing waiting for him in New York. Tarry Town and White Plains had only dredged up bad memories like a cloud of dark sediment. To remain and to linger would just make it all the worse. At least he had his home in his quiet little corner of the world, tucked away and isolated and as far as he could bare to be from that cursed place. Jack had already decided long ago that the life of a soldier was not one for him. Even feeling the weight of his war musket in his calloused hands was more than he could stand. He took to what he had known before that and clawed a farm out of the small plot of land he had bought with his pension.  
  
To home. Yes. That was the only reasonable thing to do.  
  
And when he mounted the horse, the rain like a cold sweat down his neck and back, and the old ache in his hip starting to flare from too much movement, he clenched his fists were he had wound them in the reins. The mare uneasily began walking the way they had come, hooves plopping messily down in the holes in the mud, until at the last second, he pulled her to the left.  
  
Away from home.  
  
Towards Sleepy Hollow.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://radiojamming.tumblr.com)
> 
> Notes from your local history major: -Spain was actually mildly involved in the American Revolution, mostly during and after 1776 when it came to providing supplies to the Continental Army. I'd highly recommend looking up their involvement, since it's really interesting!
> 
> -Most historians and literary peeps agree that the actual Headless Horseman from the Legend of Sleepy Hollow was probably killed during the Battle of White Plains on October 28th, 1776. It was fought only a few miles from Tarry Town, and some think that the story came from a real account of Dutch settlers finding the headless body of a Hessian nearby. (Happy Anniversary, Headless Horseman!)
> 
> -The Legend of Sleepy Hollow takes place around Halloween, 1790.


End file.
